Triumph
by Completetheory
Summary: An account of a pre-war art history student who, while undergoing a medical transition from an assigned jet format to a vehicle mode, found himself in the middle of a low-caste robot uprising. Serves as an origin of sorts for everyone's favorite Decepticon doctor, Knock Out. Content warning for one scene of physical abuse & sci-fi allegory for transphobia.
1. Acute

Blue smoke from the leaky glowing signs in the Nautilus district wreathed around Knock Out's legs, pallid in the light of Cybertron's artificial moon, as he made his way home one foot in front of the other. Risky to walk in the evening, after the guard patrols closed up shop at sixteen after: hours ago. Courses for anatomy sessions available to the Artisan caste were beyond his control, and his professors likely wouldn't care how dangerous it was for a trans car to walk home unaccompanied in the dark.

A prototype electrostaff was tucked inside his arm compartment, but so far, he hadn't had to test it.

Occasionally vehicles would drive past. He'd look enviously after them, and follow the longing feeling with a review of personal progress markers and cold anatomical data when he got home. His externals were easier to adjust: no invasive surgery for the modification of his feet, 'only' two weeks recuperation in a rented wheelchair, then crutch attachments. Wheels were grafted over shoulderblades, in part to cover the weld scars of wings: burying evidence as if their removal had been a crime. He wasn't breaking caste, only transitioning _down,_ socially.

Adding complications, his internal mechanisms and transformation configuration were complex. For now, he was bound to his bipedal mode with neither jet nor car schematic.

He was a humble artist looking for a high-caste patron of his aesthetic skills, anyway, not medical. His poring over anatomy texts, of the endoskeleton and exoskeletons, of wires snaked around internal limbs, was purely art study. _Nothing_ to do with a complicated, frowned-upon transition.

The cardkey to his apartment door didn't register, and spiderweb cracks in the paint flaked further as he fought it.

"Quirky," He said, "Come on, now." Eventually, he'd have to get the landlord out again, a sullen bulldozer whose face was a craggy graveyard for a younger Cyb's dreams.

Finally he gained access, the shadows inside discouraged only a shade by his feeble new headlights. He might have been able to afford better than a watery cube just before bed, but nacre paint for his face was a comfort he wouldn't compromise, especially during transition.

Sleep came reluctantly, and Nautilus was as restless, between the great churning ocean of crude oil and the banging of unsecured shutters. The sound of engines past his window eventually soothed him to stasis. The next morning saw him at the holographic dressing table, using the device to apply primer and nacre, and to buff out the scrapes caused by restless defragmentation. Once presentable, Knock Out rose to collect his datapad and downloaded art texts. He liked to study outdoors, in Calibration: the only park in a ten mile radius.

When he arrived, fifteen minutes poorer for the lack of alt, he was disappointed to see a construction crew building apartment frames at the park's southernmost tip. Construction forms were noisy, unattractive. Heavy duty, sure, but mostly boring diggers and cranes. One of them was ... A vehicle alt, though.

A truck?

One that rained hammerblows onto girders, shaping them with artistry and precision that belied the strength necessary to bend them.

Knock Out sat against a bench, activating his datapad, but his eyes kept roaming back to the construction far afield. To say the truck was a distraction was to understate the matter. He didn't comprehend a word of color theory for optic configurations, or museum vs natural lighting. He enjoyed that surgical exactitude, instead, but couldn't help noticing the worker was losing coolant with every blow. The crew drank from thin canisters that bubbled as they were suctioned, but they weren't expending as much as the blue one. But perhaps he was just watching the blue one more.

Knock Out checked his internal timer. Fifteen minutes to catch a tram to the deepest spiral of Nautilus, for his consult with Ferrous for his next treatment - and its payment. Ferrous offered substantial bulk discounts, but many of the things he needed were still financially _difficult._ As well as dangerous.

One would think he could find allies in other vehiculars if he were harassed by the flight forms. But designated cars were apathetic, sometimes even hostile - that _'now he knew what it was like'_ to be a vehicle.

Knock Out got the impression that other vehicles still saw him as a jet - his face nacre smooth, his digital eyes, and looked for ways to categorize his 'jet nature'. _See his shoulders, aren't they broad, for a car? Yes, the kind that 'should' hold wings..._

He was startled from unpleasantness by a cry from the construction team, and glanced up in time to witness the blue vehicle collapse forward. Knock Out stood, setting the datapad aside, and heard "-ambulance, quick".

Should he go for help? Should he stay, and do what he could? What _could_ he do?

_Knock Out, you're an art student. You're not built for this._

"Move back," Knock Out directed, approaching the crew, "I'm in training." He answered their confusion, choosing not to say he was 'in training' as a sculptor.

He leaned over the big worker's chest, prising open the mechanism that swung aside for engine maintenance, and examined the exposed workings. This was an older model, without a clear coolant containment, but he recognized the opaque piece in question. Incredibly hot to the touch, and highly pressurized. No way to safely check the capacity, but he could guess.

"Why weren't you drinking more?" He asked softly, and then glanced up, "One of you get me some water. Cool, not cold. Be quick."

Treads scrambled to comply as Knock Out opened his own chest compartment. The worker came around with a groan.

"Easy, you'll be all right."

The bruiser's tawny eyes opened, and raked up his insides. Knock Out was acutely aware that they were designated jet internals that didn't 'match' his outsides. He braced for bad response: fear, anger, even an unintentionally devastating comment. But the construction cyb just brightened his eyes, in question. Emboldened by his own limited success, Knock Out unspooled a spare tube, and connected it to his own coolant tank, explaining, "You've used up a lot of coolant. I have a liquid-cooled inline engine; I use ethylene glycol, just like you."

Not _just_ like him, but the worker's comfort was more important to him than truthfulness. It wouldn't hurt to have 'jet antifreeze' in him, based on his own research. "I'm giving your tank a few seconds to cool off before I open it. Contents under pressure."

"Thanks," The truck seemed baffled by his savior (confusion, dizziness, common overheat symptoms), peering at him. "Uh..."

"We'll call an ambulance." Knock Out opened the worker's coolant tank at last, spooling in the tube and letting gravity take over the liquid transfer.

"Please don't." The worker regained some lucidity, "I can't afford it."

Knock Out was familiar with the steep (and ever-increasing) cost of medical care, and of low caste inability to access any, even emergency care. Intimately familiar. It was only Ferrous's special exceptions that allowed him to pay off his surgeries.

"You _should_ be all right," He felt the coolant drain slowly, giving about half of what he had, "But don't do this again, understand? You need to drink - even just water, it's better than nothing."

"Sure." The big guy actually smiled at him, as if he was a good friend, and nothing was wrong. Knock Out pinched the tube off and closed up the truck's internals. The worker sat up, and one of his crew offered the water they'd retrieved.

Knock Out closed his own chest, adding, "And do a radiator flush. Prevents electrolysis from old coolant breakdown."

The big guy laughed.

"..What?" Knock Out looked up.

"Breakdown. That's what they call me."

The art student quirked a smile. "Maybe if you drank more water... I'm Knock Out."

Breakdown was already turning away, but Knock Out thought he heard him say, _'You sure are.'_

Knock Out rested on the tram; giving up half his coolant made him light in the processor, and the feeling persisted as he stepped down outside the boxy clinic. A three month veteran, Knock Out remembered how unnerving his first visit had been. He gave the waiting room a discreet appraisal for newbies. An older Cybertronian of indeterminate gender was coiled in a chair, missing several appendages of their fifty-arm array. A heavyset potential gynoid with dark optics and a service deployer, (possibly blind, Knock Out thought), and a svelte gray vehicular-looking model scrolling through a medical tablet with an expression that showed they clearly didn't understand what any of it was saying.

Knock Out sat, nodding to the receptionist, "Spinlock."

Spinlock acknowledged him with one head, the other three engaged in communications, "Your 0800 consult with Dr. Ferrous. He's with a patient right now. Please take a-" Spinlock's leftmost head glanced up, "Ah, you're sitting."

"Thank you," Knock Out said, glancing over at the gray patient, "Little light reading?"

The other twitched in alarm, turning the tablet away to deliberately obscure its contents. Too late. Knock Out had seen - Iaconian Medical Association's Guide to Alt Reassignment, Mode Changing, and Personal Identity. 'Mode changing' was a clueless phrase, as if you were initially definitely-for-**sure** a mode, stepping into another, rather than modifying, adding or removing pieces to get closer to how you felt about yourself, which may not even conflict with what was socially identified as "jet" or "car". _Wheels are wheels,_ the saying went. Landing gear was only a certain shape of wheel. It was better to talk about anatomy in neutral, even without bringing in the complication of, say, triple-changers.

"I find academia dense," Knock Out offered, "And usually lacking in _firsthand_ knowledge."

The other cyb was encouraged, "Yes. I have some difficulty, that I suppose anyone would have with the material. What are you here for?"

Knock Out anticipated that, and answered truthfully, "I'm partway through transition. JtC." Jet-to-car was outdated, (like mode changing), and he disliked it, but they were bound to existing terminology.

This stymied the stranger, who returned to reading, offering a noncommittal, "Oh."

Knock Out wanted to help, but felt he was already intruding, and besides, he wasn't medical caste. Thankfully, Ferrous called him back shortly, and he gratefully retreated to the examination room.

"Just touching base." Ferrous double-checked his medical file, "Alignment checks. How have you felt?"

Knock Out sat back, tires brushing against the table, "It's stressful." He confessed, "People can tell."

Ferrous offered a cog-laced frown. "You're at the 55% mark for procedures. Even at 100% there may be hints of your originally assigned format, but the finest surgery on the planet can only change bodies, not what others think of you."

The art student avoided looking at him, and silently held out one arm. Ferrous took it in his spidery fingers, measuring various angles.

"...There's enough clearance to mount your doors here. I think the decision to put wheels on your back was a good one. You have a lot of upper body strength, and this way you can jump backwards and transform midair."

_Useful for running away,_ hung in silence, after _people can tell._

Knock Out raised his eyebrows. "You have another trans-mode patient out there, completely pre-procedure. He seems nervous."

"Patient confidentiality." Ferrous reminded him, "You let me deal with that."

A pause. Knock Out licked his lips. "...Dr. Ferrous, what would you do if someone overheated? From exertion?"

Ferrous's eyes irised bigger, used to Knock Out's eccentric questioning, "Administer half a tank of coolant, water, and rest for at least an hour. Check optics for blurriness, ask about nausea. Not much you can do in some cases."

"Blurriness," Knock Out repeated, making a fist. "Nausea."

"Are you here to work on being a vehicle or being a doctor?" Ferrous asked, "If we anchored your doors here - and here..."

Leaving the clinic, Knock Out couldn't decide his _real_ reasons for medical exploration, or his attempt to buck caste. There was no legal way to research outside his caste assignment, and trial-and-error was a bad way to begin a medical career. He couldn't get certified, but no matter what he told himself, he kept thinking.

_It's not only high caste who need help. What I've picked up from my transition I can apply elsewhere, I can improve the system, I could help trans alts. I'm **good** at this._

He imagined shady information dealers in back alleys, passing off medical texts, old equipment. Illegal info was traditionally self-serving, like statistics - calculating long-odds for gambling. Not medicine. He might not even get caught, though...

_You can do what you want, not what they tell you._

He daydreamed during classes he usually enjoyed. As pointless as art for the upper echelons was, Knock Out _loved_ aesthetics. He didn't resent artisanship.

_How does 'Doctor Knock Out' sound?_

"Improbable?"

But his fantasies did not rest.

Breakdown was back in Calibration the next day, and Knock Out was gratified to see him with a canister of water feeding intravenously on the job. He had changed his environment, a little, for the better. It took less effort to maintain his concentration, this time. But eventually he heard the tromping approach, and Breakdown was standing in front of his bench.

"Well, hello," Knock Out deactivated his tablet, "Feeling better today?"

Breakdown shifted, "Yeah. Thank you, doc."

Knock Out privately thrilled at that title, "It was nothing."

The blue grunt appeared lost, shifting, "Maybe I could take you out for a drink?"

The art student paused, wondering if this was still only gratitude, or something more. Did physical admiration cut both ways? He knew that his mid-transition status was obvious to some, that many cybs were put off, or startled. And he didn't want Breakdown getting attached to aspects whose removal was certain.

"Not much of a drinker. Health risks." Knock Out demurred, still playing doctor, just for fun.

"Right. Yeah." Breakdown rubbed the back of his neck, "A gladiator match? There's one this evening... darkhorse favorite. I'd like it if you came."

Knock Out smiled. "Why not? First time for everything."


	2. Chronic

The gladiatorial pit was a repurposed racing stadium, covered in scorch marks and peeled rubber, with barbed wire separating the combatants from the crowd. Knock Out expected to see toughs, but the clientele ranged from construction caste, like his new friend, to luxury nobility. The only caste he **didn't** see represented were the erudite data clerks.

The far gate opened to admit a turquoise Cyb all of 16 feet high, weighing perhaps a ton fully fueled. They seemed like a stiff breeze was a fair opponent.

"...That's not the new fighter, is it?"

"'Cuz they're tiny, right?" Breakdown laughed, "We've never had a two wheeler last more than two rounds. But I heard some rumors, and it's a huge payout if they win."

Knock Out was trying to figure this out, since he hadn't been given a brochure at this murderous sporting event, "Are modded fighters legal, then?"

"Huh..?"

A klaxon blared, and three gates sprang open, issuing one sleek black ground-alt each. They transformed to reveal generic robot modes - more or less faceless and bipedal, with V slits for eyes.

"Vehicons," Breakdown explained, "Mass produced for this. If you kill enough, you get to face a real gladiator."

"Drones?" Knock Out asked, as the Vehicons shifted. "No sparks?"

Breakdown blinked. "No. They got sparks. ...They're nice people."

The turquoise figure _sped_ forward, wheeled feet gliding across the smooth metal like figure-skating. A burst of heat distortion from a vent in their back made Knock Out lean attentively. His claws bit into the stadium bench. He irised his eyes out. "That one's fast."

Breakdown sounded excited again, "Don't blink."

One of the trio transformed an arm into a blaster, and the new gladiator changed course, spun past him in an axle jump that brought one leg up with a razor sharp metal blade attached, and the Vehicon's gun was - gone. Knock Out realized the fighter had IDed the threat in less than a second, and were already lunging at another to tear through their chestplate like tinfoil. The fighter backflipped away, resuming skating. A moving target that the last Vehicon, now shaking in his plates with terror, could not lock onto.

"They're overclocking," Knock Out mused, "And those blades don't fit into that vehicle mode, there's no space for them."

Breakdown looked over, "Overclocking's when you speed up your CPU, right?"

"Right. Tremendous risk from heat and ambient voltage, if your cooling systems fail - like taking sudden damage to the heat exchanger or water block, you'd fry half your systems immediately. They need a constant flow of heat away from critical control boards."

"More likely to get damaged overclocking in a fight." Breakdown probably didn't realize the gravity of the situation, "Their name's Blurr. Maybe they've been at it for a while."

Knock Out wasn't surprised when the new fighter kicked the last Vehicon's head off seamlessly. It was possible through overclocking to anticipate movements well before an opponent made them - but it was used infrequently, in emergency situations, with adrenaline. Not constantly, for a sustained period like this.

"I like speed," Knock Out murmured, "But this is ridiculous. _Blurr_ is one mistake away from death."

Breakdown shrugged, "That's how they get around bein' a two-wheeler. If you're fragile, you gotta be agile. Or you're fragged."

Nine more Vehicons entered the fight, and Blurr changed tactics, blocking far Vehicons' blaster opportunities by keeping close ones between them, slowly hacking them down. Knock Out was uncomfortable about the previously living, sentient Cybertronians piling up. Maybe there was a secondhand market for their scrap: cold comfort to them. Blurr's daring was wooing the crowd, despite Knock Out's reservations. One lucky hit, though - or unlucky hit, depending on where your money was - and it was over for them.

Another klaxon, signalling Blurr had killed the requisite amount of Vehicons. Applause and whistling issued through the crowd. The Cyb took a bow, long and wide, and Knock Out stared. That stance. _Too wide,_ his own traitorous, nitpicking brain, socially programmed for hatred, told him. _Too wide. That's a jet-they __**were-**_

Knock Out's was now fully invested in Blurr, a post operational trans two wheeler with a reckless disregard for themself.

"Preliminaries are over!" Issued the announcer's faux cheerful voice, "Our reigning champion, weighing in at 5,550 pounds, standing 32 feet, he's our own personal XV-5 Vertifan, _Skyyyyyquake!_"

The green titan was every bit the size of that boast, to Blurr's 650 pounds (by Knock Out's estimation). Skyquake bore a morningstar as one arm and a flail as the other, naked with weaponry as if he could not wait to do violence. Knock Out disliked him immediately.

"How is this an even match? He'll flatten that two wheeler."

"If he can hit 'em." Breakdown agreed, "I don't think Blurr's manager filled them in, either."

Dread knotted in Knock Out's fanbelts, "On what?"

Breakdown pointed to the Vertifan, Blurr skating the perimeter in a cautious waltz. The panels that formed the walls were beginning to shift, making the arena gradually smaller. "Otherwise a fight could go on for hours."

"Not good." Even if they avoided contact, how was anyone Blurr's size supposed to take _Skyquake_ down?

Blurr lunged toward the Vertifan, struck at his knees - trying to slip one blade between the armor plates to sever wires. Clever, but a tactic that demanded precise aim. Blurr missed, hit the Vertifan's shinguard and narrowly evaded the morningstar, backspringing away. The shrinking ring was not yet enough for panic, but a smaller space could only benefit the bigger warrior. The skater threw themself forward to maintain speed, resumed circling. Skyquake was patient.

The next two strikes were misses for both combatants. But even if Blurr succeeded, they'd only disable a limb. Skyquake's armor was too thick for Blurr's blades otherwise - they could find themself stuck before doing real damage.

Breakdown started, "You're right, it's not a fair fight-"

Skyquake's flail connected at last, and the crowd's roar drowned out the breaking glass of Blurr's windshield. Blurr hit the metal floor and bounced before skidding to a stop. Breakdown winced, "Maybe don't watch, doc?" He'd noticed Knock Out was upset about the Vehicons. Breakdown could see where this was going from Skyquake's purposeful stride.

"Do you one better," Knock Out stood, threading between Cybs, "Excuse me-pardon me-"

"Hey-"

Knock Out was barely aware of the bad life choices he was making, vaulting over the barbed wire divide and into the arena. "Blurr," He was closer the two wheeler than the advancing gladiator, and the Vertifan stopped in momentary confusion. _Not_ a quick clocker. Blurr was trying to get up, with their right arm and leg unresponsive, and smoke pouring from both vent-slits. Knock Out opened their chest: nowhere near as straightforward as Breakdown's, Blurr's innards had tangled wires around vital systems, electrical tape, and blackened circuitry. Without context, he wouldn't have thought it was a Cybertronian's internals at all. But there was nothing he recognized as designated jet, either. Knock Out unplugged two connectors, whose metal tips _glowed_, holding them in nimble fingers.

"You're all right, you're still with me," He figured Blurr had burned out motor control. Probably other damage too, but he couldn't run a diagnostic. Blurr's spark was stable, from the light around their core reactor, but their waterblock was cracked up the middle. "You're down, but not out."

Blurr's optical array flickered, and Knock Out turned to see the looming shadow of Skyquake.

"You've won. There's no reason to kill him."

Skyquake smiled, _honorably._ "I will kill you both if you do not move."

Knock Out stood, activating his arm transformation mechanisms - his Tcog worked for limited arrays, like his abrasive circular saw and chisel. Skyquake laughed.

"Move, Artisan. I won't give you another chance."

Skyquake brought up both weapons - to the delight of the crowd - and Knock Out knew his tools wouldn't stop those weapons... but Skyquake stopped prematurely anyway. _Breakdown_ strained against the gladiator, "You're a jerk. And a coward, and I don't like cowards."

His hammerblow caught Skyquake between chest panels, and Skyquake's fans stuttered in physical indignation, "You dare!?"

"Obviously," Breakdown stalked toward him. "You talk like a storybook villain."

Knock Out couldn't really believe it; he'd given Breakdown a little coolant, sure, but jumping down into a gladiator pit was more than he expected in return.

Breakdown battered at Skyquake's hull, "What are you waitin for? Transform and let's get the frag out of here!"

"I can't," Knock Out had known what he was temporarily giving up when he began the procedures for alt transition. He knelt next to Blurr again, pulling the damaged waterblock out. It would continue to leak, and further damage internals that were already scorched. The trans motorcycle was mumbling, and Knock Out flicked an ear, leaning in.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I can fight."

_No, you can't._ Knock Out thought, "Breakdown! Get Blurr out of here. There's a-" _Hospital. Ferrous. You're not a surgeon, he could die. Don't I deserve to try?_

"There's a what?" Breakdown ducked, "C'mon, what?!"

Knock Out decided, "An address, upper 4th spiral of Nautilus. Go _here-_" A binary burst of directions to his own apartment. Breakdown complied without question, transforming. His armored vehicle mode skidded up next to KO, accepted the light burden, and sped off toward the entry gates. They were closed. Breakdown broke them down.

"I could get to like him." Knock Out mused.

"_If_ you survive." Skyquake was furious at being denied his murderous due, "You won't, little jet."

Knock Out couldn't fight, even with ranged weaponry, though he considered stealing a blaster, briefly. Skyquake was too armored, too heavy. Knock Out had a better idea, running full-tilt at Skyquake, both weapons up, make him think he was trusting the saw... Skyquake's face lit with short-sighted glee, raising his weapons. His expression changed when Knock Out slid between his open legs and came up running again behind him.

"Where are you going? There's no escape!"

Knock Out wondered if he was honestly that dense or putting it on for the crowd, who - despite the deferred bloodlust - loved this.

"This used to be a racing stadium." Knock Out's discerning optics, stereotypically attributed to aeroplanes (an automobile's optics, **because** he was an automobile and they were **his** optics), raked the floor, "There was a starting line, here-"

He remembered the first time he felt something wasn't right, when he couldn't decide if he wanted to _fuck_ the handsome racers or _be_ them. Hours in front of the mirror tucking his wings back this way and that, trying to make peace with his body. They called him vain, vain Knock Out, spends a solar century _looking at himself..._

He found it, struck the gap between two panels in the floor with his chisel, forcing it up. "They didn't refinish it, cheapskates. A mechanism to stop racers advancing past the starting line before the bell - where you're standing!"

Skyquake bore down, engine growling, hardly listening until his foot suddenly did not lift. He grunted. "What-"

"Electromagnet." Knock Out began a slow, purposeful walk around Skyquake's immobile position, avoiding the magnetized square.

"Not going to kill me, little Artisan?" Skyquake goaded, "Are you so faint of spark?"

"I'm on a schedule, and you're not worth the time to breach your hide with my saw." He added, "And I'm not a jet. I'm a _car._ A beautiful car."

He left to resounding cheers, but thought only of Blurr and Breakdown. The tram didn't come out this far, he had to jog home with his spark twitching out of alignment at every unfamiliar sound. The door to his apartment was propped up apologetically next to the frame. Breakdown; no robber would be so courteous.

Knock Out headed up to the rebooting room where his bed and personals were. "How is the patient? Not dead?"

"Not dead. Not good." Breakdown was anxious, "Sorta overheating I guess? I tried giving them water like you told me to, but it's not working."

Knock Out chewed his lower lip, reopening Blurr's insides. The gladiator barely moved. "You're still overclocking. The water helped, but we're fighting a city fire with a glass of it. You'll lose all your sensors, sight, hearing, temporarily. I have to isolate your central processing unit and reset the modded parameters. All right?"

"How much?" Blurr asked.

Knock Out frowned. "Should only take a few moments." _I've never done it before_ wasn't reassuring.

"Credits," Blurr clarified, and Knock Out remembered Breakdown's refusal to call an ambulance.

"It's on the house." Knock Out was glib. He pulled three wires and a small central backup battery, watching Blurr's optics go dark.

Blurr's working hand flailed around and Breakdown grabbed it to squeeze reassuringly. "Doc, you think you can fix em?"

Confession time. "I'm not a doctor, Breakdown."

The construction bot seemed confused. "What?"

_I lied to you_ was true. _I let you believe what you wanted_ was accurate, and no less horrible. "Sorry. We'll talk about it later." He said, plugging in the wires and battery again. "Blurr? Can you hear me?"

The gladiator clutched Breakdown's hand tight. "-Yes. Did you fix me? I can't feel my side..."

Knock Out snorted steam. "You ruined at least two motor control chipsets. There's nothing wrong with those limbs, they're just not receiving commands. ..And I don't have a replacement. That aside, your waterblock cracked. Overclocking heat roasted half your internal mechanisms. You're lucky you're not dead."

"I am." Blurr agreed, "But I would have been either way."

Breakdown grinned. "You were doin' great until the almost dying."

Blurr's faint smile soon faded, "I needed that prize, and in this condition I can't earn anything. I can't pay you."

Knock Out didn't look particularly concerned, "Hm. Breakdown, get Blurr more water. I can reroute your cooling system's remaining components to compensate..."

He could tell the gladiator didn't dare look a gift vehicle under the hood. Breakdown exited, and Knock Out asked, "How long have you been trans alt?"

Blurr's eyes shot wide. "What?"

"I'm sorry - I am too. I thought you could tell. It's our secret, I'm just curious. I don't meet many trans automobiles."

"Not long," Blurr said, panic ebbing, "A few days."

"Leapt in at the deep end," Knock Out touched the headboard every so often to ground himself - real doctors had armlet grounding straps and rubber tipped tools. "Overclocked yourself immediately too? I'm surprised you could walk, let alone do what I saw you do."

The two wheeler avoided his eyes. "Necessity."

Knock Out didn't pry further. "Prognosis is good," He reminded himself he didn't know for sure. "If we can find a replacement. And I don't think your debt collectors will look here for you."

Blurr let out a low vent. "You two are strange doctors."

Knock Out decided not to be avoidably cruel. He didn't intend to continue lying, either. He waited for the construction-bot to come back with the water, then, "I'm not a doctor. I'm Artisan caste. A sculptor. I know some anatomy from my art texts, that's all."

Breakdown showed more curiosity and confusion. "You sure help a lot of people for not being a doctor," He said, propping up Blurr by the back of their neck and shoulders, and helping them to drink. The two wheeler was practically pocket sized compared to him.

"Isn't that illegal?" Blurr asked, after gulping half the water.

Knock Out's lips pursed. "Were _your_ surgeons licensed? From the look of your insides, you had at least one non-traditional welder in there. Electrical tape is temporary, not done-and-dusted."

The work Blurr could need done - they hadn't been reformatted properly. They'd probably been illegally overclocked, too. If Blurr was a designated-as-jet-alt, they'd be mid-caste, but it seemed impolite to ask what they'd been doing before. They might want to leave their past for safety as well as peace of mind.

"Who recommended your physicians?" Knock Out asked, "Just give me a name."

Blurr's concern was blatant, "But-..."

'We'll look out for you." Breakdown gave Blurr's hand another squeeze, "Promise." The bluff, warm construction bot had excellent bedside manner.

Blurr settled. "Swindle. Zie works under the dock, at the outermost spiral. I got what I wanted done for half the cost of labor. Advance work."

Knock Out had been wrong about no one wanting illegal medical texts. Chop-shop surgeons with desperate patients? When their 'new' equipment failed, or was hastily taped in, who could they turn to? When they discovered the problems, their _specialists_ were long gone - no wonder the medical unprofessionals demanded payment almost before the patient had a chance to stand up. How many weren't as lucky as Blurr?

"Stay here and rest. Breakdown, prop my door up convincingly when we leave. We're going to pay a salescyb a visit."

'Under the dock' referred to the third substructure of Nautilus' ancient pier, which historically collapsed every so often, from the superstructures above. Knock Out told himself that only happened every few centuries. Breakdown wasn't bothered, but he didn't seem to get out much, either.

"...Thanks for the save back there, by the way."

Breakdown beamed. "No prob. What're we doing here?"

They stopped outside a building that was more weldscar than metal, _Swindle's Emporia_. "A little investigation." Knock Out said, entering, with Breakdown ducking to follow. There were three times the amount of merchandise for the size of the shop; spare battery chargers, holo-novel discs stacked fifty high and eight deep on shelves, engine, wires of every length and color fountaining off racks and tangled over disembodied lenses.

"Hello! Help you find something?" Swindle, probably, from the back.

Knock Out was companionable, "A friend gave us your name. I can see you deal in spares." The back counter came into view, where a gold painted Cybertronian was sitting near a cash register as dented as a Vehicon from the pit. The whole place had seen better days, but Knock Out kept that opinion to himself. "Swindle?"

"That's me! If you got referred, I can cut you a deal." A shifty smile, the gold at Swindle's mouth flaking away to reveal base bronze, "What are you after?"

Breakdown exclaimed, "Microns!" He leaned over an open crate, delighted. Small mechanical animals climbed up his arms, emitting soft whirrs.

"They bite!" Swindle cautioned, with levity, "Petting zoo closed down, I have a gentle spark."

"I need a multilayer circuit board." Knock Out said.

Swindle's smile faded. "Bare or assembled?"

"Assembled. It's got to fit a bipedal two wheeler chest compartment - or I can cut it to fit."

The merchant turned. "For motor control? I have some friends - if you don't want to install it."

_I bet you do._ Knock Out thought, "Oh? I'm on a budget."

"Isn't everyone?" Swindle produced a data-chip. "Nutzan Bolt. This is his current address."

Knock Out took it. "Can I see what you have?"

Swindle retreated to the backroom, while Breakdown was in the seventh power of heaven, covered in beeping Microns. Swindle came back out, and zie dropped a pile of objects on the counter. "Circuit board, wire strippers, electrical tape. Fifty credits."

Knock Out didn't move. "I want a board with a proper pin terminal. One that can attach without having to strip wires. See, electrical tape gets hot, the glue melts. It slips. Suddenly you lose the connection to an arm or a leg, a wheel or a wing. Inconvenient walking to class. Fatal on a bridge, in flight, or driving. Understand?"

Swindle opened zir mouth silently, and Knock Out gave zir a sympathetic look.

"I don't think you want to hurt anyone. You're getting bad advice from bad medics. But people will get hurt."

"Are you police?" There was surrender in zir posture, "I only go by what they tell me."

Breakdown was concerned, ready to get involved if things got violent, but neither of the other Cybertronians were escalating.

"Not police," Knock Out pushed the offered items back at Swindle, and then dropped a sixty credit piece on the counter. "Give me a terminal with proper pins. All right?"

"All right." Swindle vanished again, and Breakdown trundled over with a Micron in his arms. It lowed morosely.

"What is that?"

"Dunno. She looks tired, though."

Swindle produced a fully-finished board as requested, and Breakdown held up the Micron hopefully. "What is this, and how much?"

The nutrois Cybertronian gave a flaking frown. "Cyber-Rhino?" It sounded like Swindle was pulling a name out of thin air, "-Ten credits."

Breakdown put down the money without hesitation, and as they left the wharf, tucked the little creature away in his chest compartment.

"I hope you don't think I'm a vet, too," Knock Out joked.

"You could be." Breakdown said, simply. Knock Out found that he had nothing to say to that. Breakdown actually believed in him more than he believed in himself, which was considerable.

"So what are you gonna do about this Nutzan guy?" Breakdown asked, "Call the authorities?"

"Maybe. I meant what I said; medical shortcutting won't do any good."

Breakdown nodded, pausing at the ruined door to let Knock Out enter first. "Blurr's lucky to have you." Breakdown added, with more of that bizarre faith that Knock Out was sure he hadn't done a thing to earn. Were medicos seen as magicians? There was a certainty that Knock Out felt when he was reassuring Blurr...

"Lucky he has us both," Knock Out returned, much more glib than he felt.

Blurr was sleeping off their multitude of physical and emotional traumas, and Knock Out decided to let them rest. Breakdown retrieved a box and tarp, swaddling his a small Micron burrito and cooing over her. Knock Out sat by the bed gazing off into space, turning the circuit board over. He should be well on his way in an Artisan bracket, content with that - but he had a knack for medical work, and society needed healing. So many Cybertronians forced to horrific means to get care...

"You should open a practice." Breakdown suggested. Knock Out couldn't pretend he hadn't considered it.

"We'd need parts, equipment, and storage. We'd risk incarceration, at best."

Breakdown said, "Doesn't the university toss out a whole bunch of equipment every year?"

Knock Out grinned. "Don't encourage me. ...And run a bath for that 'Cyber-Rhino', I can see the rust from here. One half ammonia, one fourth lacquer thinner, one fourth water. Got it?"

"Got it-_doc._"


	3. Fulminant

A few days passed, with Knock Out and Breakdown supervising their patient, who made a strong recovery. Breakdown gladly helped with physical recuperation, manual dexterity, and walking.

"You'll be skating just like you were, before long." Breakdown encouraged, lifting them up under the arms and setting them back on the bed, "You're doing great." His pride in Blurr's accomplishments was audible. Blurr, who was not used to blanket approval, vented hot, and scooted to lean against Breakdown's side.

"Thank you."

The construction bot readily wrapped an arm around Blurr, making them feel welcome as his engine rumbled. Blurr enjoyed the mains hum from Breakdown, and Breakdown enjoyed Blurr's warmth and weight.

"I used to be a guard," Blurr admitted, "Lunar prison escort. I can't do that job anymore, now that I'm..."

Breakdown hmm'd, gently amending, "Now you can't fly. So you gotta find some other way to pay off what you owe Nutzan."

Something illegal. Caste was caste for a reason. It was all well and good if someone was happy being a data-sorter ("librarian" a degrading term only to the barbarian-minded) or an architect who adored building design. Try to _leave_ a caste, and you went down - as low as the gutter. There, you could catch snippets of government-approved radio describing how the poor were oppressing the rich. You might laugh, if your lungs weren't full of runoff rain-oil that dripped into your vents while you slept huddled in an alley. There were few places where the casteless could turn. Breakdown heard a rumor about a political movement, the Decepticons, jockeying for freedom from castes. He figured the movement would be infiltrated, neutered, or turn to violence. Social problems like caste endured long past their founders.

"Courier. You've got the speed for it. If you take private messages..." The pay could be high, as could the risk. It was no _more_ dangerous than overclocking in battle.

Blurr reluctantly left the warm lap and limped to the window. Across Nautilus' great oil ocean, private citizens used yacht alts to burn up energon, gleaming reminders of Cybertron's disparity. Blurr watched the mighty, laboring ferriers bring across freight in sharp contrast. _All served, in their own way!_

What scrap.

"You've both done so much for me." Knock Out made several trips to Ferrous to purchase things; permanent brackets to replace electrical tape, heatsinks and fans to recoup the loss of their waterblock... An Artisan spending spare credits. Breakdown had ponied up his few, whatever didn't go to feeding his Micron and himself. And neither of them had asked for repayment.

Knock Out arrived on foot, as usual, climbed the stairs, and flashed them both a pearly smile. "Well, hello."

"Hello!" Blurr smiled, "I'm ambulatory!"

"That's great news. I have some for you, as well. I have a supplier."

Breakdown blinked. "What, you mean Ferrous?"

Knock Out laughed, "No, better. A high caste agitator. Very connected, a professor at Terne Uni. She's promised to set me up with equipment, patients. _Texts._"

There was only so much he could do with Artisan texts, his own experience and knack. He could use bodies, too, while he was asking for the moon. "I can't give you her name for security reasons. But this is looking like a sure thing."

Blurr smiled, awkwardly happy for him, "Ah. That's great, doct-... Knock Out."

Knock Out moved to the window, looking out across the ocean, "First shipment comes in three days... you can call me Dr. Knock Out." The way his soul stretched out inside him and lit his every dark corner, he knew this was the right choice. Freedom - the freedom to choose at all - was a beautiful, fragile thing.

The rebellion began the day after Knock Out's clinic opened, but he didn't realize it at first. All he knew was that one minute he had power, and the next, the building was dark.

"Perfect." He flicked on his headlights, far brighter and more robust than they had been when first wired, a month or so ago. The clinic's backup generators hadn't arrived, so it was fortunate he wasn't in the middle of surgery. "Breakdown?"

Breakdown and Blurr both had accompanied him to Iacon, and the big city was a completely different animal than Nautilus. He wasn't ashamed to admit it scared him. Everything was noisy, there were no recognizable street signs, and as a trans alt, he was always on alert for danger anyway.

"I'm here." The tawny eyes in the dark reassured him like no other. Breakdown was a great asset to his sense of safety... and surprisingly deft. He was Knock Out's unofficial-official RN, as well as security. "Looks like a rolling blackout. Place down the street lost power right after us. Dark as far as I could see beyond that."

Knock Out didn't like that at all. "I thought Iacon maintained a 135% power capacity with surplus generators. That should make rotational load shedding unnecessary. Could it be a mechanical-"

A boom in the distance that both felt through the floor, trembling the doors in their frames.

The nurse offered an uneasy look, "Shouldn't the boom have come before?"

"That's my professional opinion." Knock Out agreed, "We can stay here and see if anything happens or try to get better informed, what do you think?"

Breakdown considered. "I think if it was an accident, people might be hurt. Might need a doctor."

Both automobiles moved to the door as one. Outside, it was dark, and eerily quiet. The streets were empty, as if there had been some silent call to evacuate. The guidance posts for drivers, on emergency power, flashed stop and go signals with no one to heed them. Knock Out didn't like not being in the know, and he didn't like being only seventy percent through his operations - still incapable of complete transformation, yet close enough to taste the gravel under his tires.

His big partner stayed close, wire-deep loyal. He thought about Blurr back at their apartment. They could divert together to check up, but Breakdown could make the trip faster without Knock Out to slow him.

"Check on Blurr, make sure they're safe." He said, "Comm me when you get back in range."

Breakdown transformed and drove off, taking the last of Knock Out's security with him. Knock Out was tempted to go back inside the clinic, but _people might be hurt_ was still ringing in his receptors.

Knock Out only had to walk about a fourth of a mile before he found the bodies. Strangely, they were _Vehicons._ There was no arena for miles. As he went from body to body, playing medical detective, only one thing was sure. Prior to leaving their unmourned bodies, they had been headed to the capital of Iacon.

Knock Out had visited city hall once, to register his Artisan caste and display proof of transformation. He'd been forced to call himself a NT, 'NonTransforming', rather than a car, pending re-registration. For 'medical reasons' based on a binary system of inaccurate presumptions. Ironically, it was more dangerous to _assume_ someone with an external car array had 'matching' internals. Something to fix, when he got settled. Knock Out rolled the nervous tightness out of his shoulders, checking each body he encountered for life signs. No joy. The Vehicon model, oddly, soon ceded to the white-and-translucent model of local law enforcement. A creeping wrongness suggested itself to Knock Out.

If it had been a surprise attack of Vehicons on guards, he'd be seeing the opposite of this. The Vehicons would surprise the guards, and there would be translucent bodies at the perimeter with more Vehicons casualties inward, as the guards redoubled their efforts to repel the invasion.

"Something isn't right here." The guards had known there would be an attack? Not how many. Surprised the Vehicons, who then bore them down with numbers?

"Breakdown," He tapped his comm, "Are you in range?" Nothing.

Knock Out vented from his ribbed gills, picked up the gun that the guard had dropped, popping open the chamber to check the level of the plasma batteries.

Which were missing.

It made no sense for the guards to have been sent out without ammunition. The government was corrupt, but why would they make themselves vulnerable? It wasn't a smart move during an uprising. The lower data clerks might go unarmed, but the Council and the high Archivists kept company with Elite Guard, prodigies of battle. They were well aware of the risks they took riding tigers.

Nothing more could be done for these souls. He rose again and continued toward city hall, recreating the fight in his mind as he went. A first wave of Vehicons crashed into a barrier of enforcers, the guards repelled them, and, perhaps already noticing they had been issued weapons without ammunition, the guards dropped back into the heart of the city. The second wave had cost them both, and by the third, only translucent bodies were present. Knock Out checked two or three weapons before suspecting most had been left empty.

Overhead the rush of wind and a sonic boom heralded the arrival of - a Cybertronian - Knock Out focused his eyes and tracked the flight of the individual as they arced, seamlessly transformed and landed in front of the doors of city hall.

"Decepticons!"

The figure roared and was answered by a sea of black gleaming clone-bodied Vehicons, specked with the odd mismatching cybertronian, as they poured forth from the streets to meet the new arrival. 'New' was certainly the operative word. Knock Out couldn't see a scratch on this one. Chromed to a perfect shine, painted up flawlessly with rich royal purple accents, as if prepared for a job interview and determined to make a good impression. Not an electron out of place.

He approached with caution, but he might as well have been invisible to the joyous crowd.

"Freedom is at hand for us all!" The individual assured, prompting a chant - _Mega-Tronus! Mega-Tronus!_ until their silvery savior entered city hall.

Knock Out, with curiosity as compulsion, threaded through the crowd, following just before the heavy doors thundered closed. There was power for that, and low, emergency running lights in the vestibule, reflected in the polished metal floor. The building had a quiet religious air, superior and sanctified. Knock Out followed in Megatronus's heavy tread, amazed that he was ignored by the titan. Megatronus's back panels were flicking in anticipation, seeming ready to give a speech. Knock Out wanted to talk to them, but he couldn't think what to say. He'd witnessed the mob outside was murderous, and had no idea what he was doing here. There was no chance that Breakdown's communicator could reach inside the building.

A number of things happened at once.

The main ceremonial doors opened, a Cybertronian who Knock Out recognized from Ferrous's clinic as the trans jet, now looking more than thirty percent configured into an aerial mode, approached Megatronus from one side, with newly grafted wings high and alert, and a voice echoed out from deeper within the building.

"Enter the auditorium, Megatronus."

Knock Out heard the jet whispering, "Remember what we discussed. Just play as closely to rehearsal as possible. You'll do wonderfully."

Megatronus moved to the auditorium's entryway, with no nervousness evident. Easy leonine grace matched their every measured step, which was why the immediate outburst took Knock Out so much by surprise.

"_Brother?_"

Knock Out exchanged a look with the trans jet, who seemed surprised to see _him,_ too. Both hurried to the doorway. Knock Out was initially staggered by the room - eight times higher than the tallest Cybertronian he had ever seen, with a fiery red and yellow stained glass window at the back, which framed a mere three individuals... the High Council.

Around the room, like adjudicators, stood statues of the original Thirteen Primes, whose sullen sainted expressions condemned whoever stood illuminated in the center.

A bulky data clerk stood at the base of the Council's platform. "Megatronus, let me explain."

Megatronus approached with arms open, to embrace or invite a physical altercation, it was hard to tell.

"What is Orion doing here?" The trans jet hissed, "He'll ruin everything!"

Knock Out didn't inquire and risk missing what was unfolding. He scrutinized the Council, who stood unmoved, and noticed behind them a fourth lurking figure with no pedestal.

"I am here to give my petition for Primeship." Megatronus's voice belied the warrior looking physical appearance, speaking with comforting gravel, like someone's grandfather.

"The Council has already chosen me." Orion said, "Megatronus, you are welcome to advise me, in the coming months-"

"**Advise** you?" Megatronus wrestled with disbelief more than mortification, posture wide, palms up. An appeal to the Council.

"I would speak." Megatronus was, by Knock Out's estimation, trying to recover, to find words that clearly weren't planned, blindsided by this event utterly, "Please. Hear me, Council. My people - I come before you as supplicant, as living proof that the caste system is archaic. I was a gladiator, I am-I can be so much more - than a warrior."

Megatronus was stumbling. Orion had a look of pity usually reserved for rusty Microns. The Council spoke, in eerie unity.

"You fought your way to our gates to demand audience. Gentle Orion walked here, and troubled no one. Dead guards lie behind you, Megatronus."

Knock Out saw the gladiator sag in confusion and dismay. "They tried to force us to leave - I had audience with you planned! Orion, tell them what we discussed!"

Orion said nothing, and by his silence Megatronus seemed to lose even more faith and composure. "Brother," Megatronus entreated, "I have worked so hard. I ask for a chance to prove myself, what I am, what I have become. We can have a revolution, freedom for all Cybertronians. Show them our correspondence, what you promised me."

Orion maintained his silence. Above, the fourth individual behind the Council retreated out of sight, into the wings of the auditorium.

"Orion Pax will receive the blessing of the Matrix," The Council said in stereo, "We have spoken."

"No! No, wait-" Megatronus started forward.

"We have spoken!"

The gladiator stopped, but did not look at the Council. "Orion," Megatronus said, so quietly that Knock Out could barely hear it from the door, "I will kill you for this."

"How like a gladiator." Orion returned, pitiless. Knock Out ducked aside as Megatronus stormed out with eyes lit by rage.

"Megatronus," The trans jet approached and was backhanded aside like a doll, stumbled and caught himself with a staticky yelp of dismay. To Knock Out's shock, the jet _barely seemed to recognize_ the blow was as unearned as any blow could be. He gave a response that hinted at far greater, more horrific private assaults.

"I'm sorry," The jet apologized, as if he were the one doing violence, "So sorry, Megatronus..."

"We're leaving," The gladiator's voice was black ice, "This is war, Starscream."

"They're calling it an electrical storm fault." Knock Out tossed the data tablet dismissively onto the desk, pacing scuffs into their new apartment floor, "They'll spin Orion's ascention to Prime, as well. Maybe pretend Megatronus was never considered, or claim he was ready to do them all harm right from the beginning."

"Maybe he was," Breakdown said, "Gladiator, right?"

"They're all doing us harm," Knock Out returned, "Everyone who blocks access to care, everyone who pretends this is a system that doesn't victimize a good fifty percent of its working people, bare _minimum._ Everyone who holds the machine in place while it destroys us."

Breakdown rubbed his head. "I'm sorry."

Knock Out's irritation banked. "No, you're right. He wasn't a good choice." He thought about Megatronus's lashing out against the trans jet. No, the Council had made the right decision _not_ choosing him, for the wrong reason.

He thought of empty guns and manufactured melees.

"...But neither is Orion. He's firmly in the Council's pocket, and everyone knows it. The rioters won't be happy, Megatronus will **look** cheated, when we're _all_ being cheated. He'll play on it, people will fall in behind him... It'll grow out of anyone's control."

Blurr concentrated on sandpapering down the place on their leg where the blade had been removed, priming it for repainting. Their expression was anxious, but they didn't jump in, just listening. The doorbell chimed, and Breakdown looked up, excited, "Patients?"

"At the _apartment?_" Knock Out turned on his heel and went for the door, touching a panel that made it one-way transparent. Outside, two Cybs stood, a big offroad looking tough and a two wheeler, lankier than Blurr.

Knock Out opened the door. "Backlash..." It was more question than greeting.

The two wheeler smiled, gestured, "And this is my associate, Conduit."

"May we come in?" The bigger of the two asked, and Knock Out stepped aside. He couldn't help noticing the enormous sigils that both of them wore. The big Cyb noticed him staring, tapped the unusual insectoid looking symbol.

"Like it?"

"Not my color," Knock Out deflected instinctively, neutral, a smile, and then the two entered the living space and Breakdown gawped at them, impressed. The kind of new-City-person impressed that hadn't worn off, yet.

"We heard you were at the Council hall." Conduit said, turning to face Knock Out. "With Megatronus."

Knock Out's eyes brightened by a few lums, then dimmed back down dismissively. He didn't answer, and a glance silenced Breakdown, too, "This is Blurr," Knock Out said instead, "My housemate. And Breakdown, my nurse assistant."

At Breakdown's uncertain expression, Backlash indicated themself, "I am Dr. Knock Out's benefactor. No need for secrets, here."

"The lady from Terne?" Breakdown ventured, "What are you doing here? I thought that was s'posed to be secret."

"She got fired." Conduit said, and Knock Out's expression changed - shocked, to devastated, then climbed back to neutrality with a truly remarkable traction.

"Is that so." Knock Out asked, his voice a level match for his face, "So our verbal contract is dissolved."

"Not necessarily." Conduit stepped aside as Backlash moved forward and tapped her chest, where the strange purple symbol was etched.

She said, "I am affiliated with a group that is growing in underground influence. We have loyalists everywhere... I know a scientist who can supply you what I was in a position to, before. But the terms will have to be renegotiated. You must work for the Decepticons, and perform your services on whoever we bring you."

Knock Out opened his mouth and then schooled himself to silence before he could blurt _any_ response. After a second, he canted his head, "I'm not wearing that insignia, and neither is my partner."

Backlash didn't seem offended. "There are other ways to show _team spirit._ Is that agreement, Dr. Knock Out?"

"It's not disagreement." Knock Out took a seat on a chair edge, folded one leg and twined his fingers in the spokes of his footwheel. "I won't overclock anyone. Only reformat the willing. If they're not conscious to give consent I fix them as they are. No bringing me half-dead trikes and asking for tanks."

Backlash looked to Conduit, who shrugged expansively, then met Knock Out's eyes directly. "We're not after anything nefarious, doctor. There's going to be a war and we're going to have injured people. That's all we expect of you. No experimentation, no secret underground bunkers of supersoldiers. Just you versus wounds and sickness, exactly as it would have been - but you fix no Autobots."

"Autobots?" Blurr asked.

"Autonomous robotic organisms." Conduit elaborated, and Backlash's lip curled, but she let him continue, "Finding freedom in slavery; the government's initiative to paint themselves as a just society. They've vowed to put down our insurrection, but whether they succeed or not isn't going to be your problem. Just run your practice, Knock Out. We'll take care of the rest."

Knock Out hopped up off the chair and held out one hand, and Backlash took it. She had a firm handshake, compared to her big partner's considerate soft squeeze.

"You take care now," Conduit tossed over his shoulder as they walked back outside, "Don't get into any trouble."

"Was that a _cop?_" Breakdown asked from over Knock Out's shoulder, "Aren't they supposed to be policing caste?"

"Hmm," Knock Out murmured, closing the door with a click, "I think Autobots will be fielding that, from now on."


End file.
